


out of focus (everything blurry looks the same)

by anxiety_and_all_its_subsequent_failings



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Both these bitches need serious therapy, Castaspella for Best Emotional Support Sister, Child Abuse? We Don't Know Her, Did I say the Really Bad Tags only pertain to the adults?, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, For the Love of Shadow Weaver, He's Going to Get Better Tho, Hordak is Emotionally Constipated, Hordak is Hot I don't make the rules, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing but we're in this together kids, I lied and now Micah is hurt, IN THIS HOUSE WE LOVE AND PROTECT SMOL BEANS, Light Spinner Hates Herself a Lot, Light Spinner loves him WAY more than she loves herself, Light Spinner's B+ Parenting, Micah for Most Precious Bean, Multi, Only Light Spinner here folks, Physical Abuse, Shadow Weaver? What Shadow Weaver, She tries dammit, She's still kinda trash tho, Sometimes shit happens tho, The Really Bad Tags pertain only to the adults, The Spell of Obtainment Never Happened kay?, We don't know her, Which isn't saying much but okay, she baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24601000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anxiety_and_all_its_subsequent_failings/pseuds/anxiety_and_all_its_subsequent_failings
Summary: Light Spinner has a plan.Obtain the ingredients needed to cast the Spell of Obtainment. Gain the Power. Defeat the Horde. Throw it all in Norwyn's face. Simple, clean-cut, foolproof.Until it isn't.In other words, Light Spinner is captured in the Whispering Woods by Horde soldiers before she has a chance to become Shadow Weaver.It changes everything.
Relationships: Adora & Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra), Catra & Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra), Hordak & Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra), Micah & Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 82





	1. is anybody out there looking out for me?

Screaming.

She hears screaming.

Why does she hear screaming? It’s loud, skipping on the inside of her head like stones on a pond, and Light Spinner draws another rune. The magick is burning, scalding on her fingertips. It isn’t enough. More screaming. Loud and shrill, metal shearing shrieks and a blast of heat pushes hair away from her face. The veil she wears flutters, but it doesn’t block the smell of charred metal-dust-flesh-acrid smoke. She wants to gag.

Screaming.

“ _Light Spinner_!!!!”

Wait – she knows that voice. It calls to her in the halls, echoing off Mystacor’s grand archways like a sacred thing. Eager and bright and vibrant. A child’s voice.

“Micah. . .”

It leaves in a whisper, echoed by a shriek of panic, and her heart goes cold.

Light Spinner is not a _good_ woman. She knows this, deep in the bottom of her soul. Because her morals are flexible on a good day and near non-existent on a bad. Because she is sardonic and cold and her temper is bitter like a winter snow, freezing and relentless. Because she craves power to the very marrow of her bones and, stars, Norwyn was _right_ , the bastard. Some power is not meant for her.

The spell does not work without the root. The root grows nowhere but the Whispering Woods. And so, naturally, she brought Micah out of the safety of Mystacor to obtain it.

And now there is bots-screaming-soldiers-burning-pain and –

She turns and Micah is being dragged away by soldiers. His magick is bright and lively and blue and the shadows it casts upon his young face are haunting. The only thing he knows is light. He is panicking. His shields do not hold, and his spells do not damage, and the hands that hold him are relentless. She can hear them mock the boy from beneath their helms.

Children should not look so very frightened. Children should not be covered in bruises and blood. Children should not fight like cornered animals, bared teeth and wild eyes, and he _looks_ at her and it _hurts_ and –

Light Spinner _screams_.

The sound rips from her throat like a blade. Cold and visceral and serrated about the edges. It echoes in the clearing, and she is unsure of how the Horde unit managed to get this far into the Whispering Woods. But they will _regret it_.

Because Light Spinner is not a good woman. And her magick knows this.

It blasts out in lightning arcs, violet and pink and crimson. Robots explode. Soldiers flee screaming nonsense. There is a tank, and it overturns in a surge of iron and crunching bones and sparking electronics. All is dust, screaming, and fire. The Whispering Woods twist around them. _Defend_ , they say, _protect ourselves for We are Ancient_. Micah fights, claws at those binding him. He loses. The soldiers still grasp his arms. She cannot see their faces beneath the protective helms, but there is fear in the line of their shoulders, and one bashes her pupil across his cherubic face. It splits. Bruises. Blood drips from the wound in his eyebrow.

Light Spinner feels her body move and they fly, crimson in an arc. Her nails come away bloody. Flesh gives way beneath her hands, charring as blood spills. She pours magick into each one, dark and violet and cloying. Someone gags. Another screams. They all fall away. One by one, pathetic sniveling things, until there is nothing left but acrid smoke and bodies and –

“Light Spinner, I’m okay. It’s okay, you can stop. I’m okay, _please_ just stop.”

Micah.

There is blood beneath her nails and spattered on her face and Light Spinner wants to gag. She is not a soldier. She is a sorcerer, magick in every pore and not all of it good. But Micah looks at her with big dark eyes that shine with adoration and a smile that can light a new-moon night and she almost _lost him_ and now. . . . there are tiny arms twisting around her waist, holding tight, and Light Spinner goes still. Her personal space is a sacred thing. Everyone in Mystacor knows this.

But Micah is a child, and he is frightened, and her heart is pounding right into the tips of her pointed ears with adrenaline. He is bleeding and bruised and frightened. She shakes with raw hatred. They’d hurt her Micah and she’d _let them_. She brought them to this place. This is her fault.

The least she can do is allow her pupil this trespass.

Light Spinner clings back just as tightly, one hand up to cradle his head. His hair is dirty and matted with sweat. But it’s also baby-soft and fine and smells like smoke. Everything smells like smoke, blood, rot, ash. This is her fault. All of it. Every bit. Tears prick her eyes but the do not fall. Micah doesn’t need tears. He needs an adult, needs strength. Every inch of his small body trembles with nerves, and he looks up at her through wet eyes.

“I thought they were gonna take us!” Micah chokes. “I’m not strong enough. We need the spell! I’m not strong enough!”

Mere hours previous would have seen her rejoice at the vehemence in his voice. But now her heart leaps into her throat. Because this is a frightened child she’d pulled into her machinations, a boy with a soul of pure gold now tarnished. Light Spinner swallows thickly. Brushes the hair from his eyes.

She shakes her head. “No, Micah. You don’t need the spell. You are so _strong_ , my child, so brave. Coming to this place was a mistake on my part.”

Micah trembles harder, tears dripping down his soiled cheeks, and he sniffles. “B-but you had to save me! I c-couldn’t even keep a shield up. How strong can I be?!”

There is shouting behind them. The sounds of whirring tanks and stomping boots through ruined foliage. The Whispering Woods is dangerous, yes, but these soldiers move quickly. They may just make it out alive with prisoners in tow.

She cannot allow them to take Micah.

She _will not_ allow them to take Micah.

Light Spinner smiles at her student. Micah, fourteen and impatient and impossibly kind. Micah, who views her as a saint when she is anything but. Micah, who is bloody and bruised and crying because she craves power. Blood drips from a gash in his eyebrow. His clothes are torn. His hair is loose and dirty. Tear-tracks cut rivers down his cheeks. And still, his eyes shine bright, and he looks to her with impossible trust.

This will be the last time she sees him, she thinks.

“You, my child, are the strongest enchanter to ever grace the halls of Mystacor.” Light Spinner whispers this like a secret, one hand tracing a teleportation rune to the back of his ruined tunic with the last of her stolen magick. “And it is not only because of your talents. It is because of your heart. And I am so very _proud_ of you, Micah.”

His tears stop. Micah looks at her in wonder, forever in wonder, and Light Spinner smiles just for him. The shouts are closing in. She can hear the grinding metal of tanks, the whirring of blasters, the stomp of metal boots. They will take her, she knows, but they will not take Micah. She will not allow it. And so she removes her veil in the presence of another for the first time in years. Her student’s eyes widen further. Shock. Awe. Confusion. Fear.

Light Spinner kisses Micah hard on the forehead and murmurs, “Do not stop fighting, my child.”

There is no warning.

Horde soldiers burst through splintered trees in a wave of metal and shouts. She activates the rune and pushes through the resistance she meets. Magick has a price, and it _burns_ , lightning racing down her arms even as Micah is taken back to the safety of Mystacor. Just before the soldiers reach her, she replaces her veil and moments later something strikes a vicious blow across one shoulder. Crushing blows are painful, incredibly so.

But nothing hurts as much as the look of utter betrayal on Micah’s bruised face.

Light Spinner does not stop until he is nowhere to be found. Safe and free and damaged. Norwyn will have the last laugh, she thinks, bitter old goat that he is. But, she supposes, this may be the price for her hubris.

Footsteps descend upon her. She does not fight. The soldiers force her to the ground and beat her with weapons. They wrench her arms behind her back and bind them in shackles. The magick flees from her veins and leaves her weak, defeated in the charred remnants of flower beds. The power will not be hers.

Blood stains her teeth and Light Spinner still does not fight.

~~This was not the plan, but perhaps the best way to slay the beast is from _inside_.~~

She remembers the sound of Micah’s laugh and the warmth of his faith and smiles.

A pain in her temple.

The world goes dark.

~*O*~

Light Spinner wakes and her mouth is tacky with dried blood. It tastes like dirty coins, disgusting. She cannot see. They’ve placed a bag over her head, rough cloth that smells of vomit and sweat and whatever else has soaked into the cursed fabric. Her shoulders are screaming in agony, twisted as they are behind her. Her wrists are raw.

She still cannot touch her magick.

The panic comes in a wave. Deep and consuming. She is powerless and damaged and dirty and _weak_ , so damnably _weak_. How could she have let this happen?! The spell is _there_ , a rune engraved on the back of her eyes, gleaming and calling to her like a siren’s song. She can have infinite power, drain it from the Moons of Enchantment. She could have wiped the Horde from existence, forced Norwyn to trust her, watched as he begged at her feet for a mercy that would never come. But here she is. Beaten. Broken. Bound. Weak.

She can’t breathe.

She can’t. . ..

She can’t _breathe_.

Light Spinner has not had an episode in a long while, but she remembers the feeling vividly. She claws for air and tries to find something, _anything_ , to keep her in the present. To stop her thoughts from spiraling down a very dark abyss of doubt. The shackles are rough on her wrists. She can feel cold seeping into her knees. Something presses against the back of her neck. The clasps of her veil tug. Dried blood on her tongue. Magick in her vein. . . no magick. No _magick_.

Her heart thunders in her ears and Light Spinner gags, twisting in place to keep from retching inside this cursed bag. A sound reaches her, rough and deep, followed quickly by thick hand wrenching at her damaged shoulder. It hurts. Hurt is good. Pain is an old friend. She embraces the ache and blinks when her eyes are assaulted. Her hair is matted with dried blood. Her skull throbs. How has she not noticed this?

A large reptiloid snarls down at her, all sickly yellow eyes and the smell of old scales. His claws dig into her flesh through her robes. They hurt.

_Thank the moons_.

Reptiloids are not verbose, nor are they known for their gentle natures, and Light Spinner is not delusional. He can shatter every bone in her body if he so desires, without even the effort it would take to snap a twig. His eyes are vicious and cold, and a rattling hiss rushes over her skin. His breath smells like rot. Light Spinner forces down her revulsion.

This is a warning, that much is clear.

“Hey, Deimor, easy on the witch!” Someone else barks. “They’re _delicate_ , you know. And don’t look her in the eyes! You saw what she did to Kevin.”

Light Spinner does not rise to the bait. Instead, she catalogues. Knowledge is its own form of power, and she intends to gather every scrap she can on these people. There are four soldiers in this freezing box. The reptiloid is named Deimor, tall and broad. A woman had spoken, equally as tall with long white hair and vicious-looking fangs protruding from her smirk. The two others snicker. They do not remove their helmets.

The transport bounces. Rattles. Then grinds to a halt. Light Spinner stumbles and falls. It hurts, knees aching on cold steel and her face collides with a protruding bench. Blood pours from her nose and it blinds her, eyes watering. Everything hurts. Nothing is broken.

Focus.

~~Some opportunities are painful things and her mother taught her this lesson well.~~

More hands. They force her upright, and the world spins, and Light Spinner fights down another wave of nausea. There is something wrong. The woman with her teeth and tattoos smirks, filthy bag in hand.

“Lord Hordak’s waiting for you, _witch_ ,” she sneers. “Let’s see what punishment he can come up with for killing all my men.”

Her world descends into darkness and the smell of vomit-blood-sweat-panic is stifling. She can’t breathe. Everything hurts. Each step is a greater task than the last. But Light Spinner is not weak of will. She is stubborn and defiant and they will _not_ break her.

Her arms are bruised. It is difficult to breathe through the clotted blood in her nose. The soldiers pay her no courtesy and drag her like a child’s ragdoll. Light Spinner notes these trespasses and tucks them close to her heart. They will fester. They will rot. And when the moment comes, she will allow them to destroy these weak, cowardly beings and laugh at the terror filling their bodies. She is not a kind woman. She is not a good woman.

They will die screaming.

Something crashes into the back of her shoulder again. A hand. Large, rough, cool. The reptiloid. He growls at her. The others laugh. Snickering, cruel sounds like children torturing insects, and Light Spinner feels hatred fester. This is not where she is meant to be. This was not the plan.

And then she remembers Micah, blood on his face and bruises on his cheeks, terror in big dark eyes. Self-hatred is a bitter tonic. This is a fate of her own making, the consequence of her decisions. The debt must be paid.

For her pupil, she will do so gladly.

They march for what seems like an eternity. Endless moments of stumbling and bruises and scathing remarks that are far from clever. Light Spinner detests insults without purpose. Brutes, all of them, and she is now their prisoner. Her magick is bound away. Her body is bruised and weak. But she still has her mind, and that is the most dangerous weapon of all. They do not seem to realize this.

And then, finally, they stop.

Light Spinner is forced to her knees. She hears the soldiers follow moments later. The air is tense, thick and fearful with an energy she has never experienced before. Norwyn is not a commanding presence by nature. He is firm and stern, but warm in the base of his personality. Soft in a way she has never been. But this is. . .. another beast entirely. It feels like a serpent sliding down the back of her neck, a shadow brushing through her hair, a monster whispering in her ear. It is cold and it is strong and apprehension pulses in time with her heart.

“Lord Hordak, sir. The prisoner, as you requested.” The woman again.

A pause. Then, “Excellent work, Force Captain. You reported she is a sorcerer, if I am not mistaken?”

The voice is deep and cultured, tinged about the edges with an accent that lilts in a way she has never heard before, and Light Spinner feels her throat close.

“Yes, Lord Hordak,” is the prompt reply. “She and another sorcerer ambushed our battalion along the edge of the Whispering Woods. We lost nearly a third of our men but managed to apprehend her. She is. . . strong, sir. Dangerous.”

He hummed. “Is that why she is bound so tightly? Do the magic suppressors not work to your satisfaction?”

“The suppressors work perfectly, Lord Hordak. But she did something to one of my men by looking at him. We had to knock him unconscious. He wouldn’t stop screaming. I thought it was probably a good idea to cover her face.”

Light Spinner remembers that man. He’d been holding Micah. He’d bashed the dear boy across the face, sneered at his tears. She remembers reaching through threads of consciousness, sorting through memories, pulling nightmares to the forefront and _twisting_ , relishing in the sounds of his screams. Her powers are not typically so overt, but that soldier had made her angry. She does not regret it.

The voice of Lord Hordak scoffs, and Light Spinner steels her spine. “You feed a delusion, Force Captain Huntara. She is bound with the suppressors and powerless. Remove the covering and leave us. I will contact you if I require your assistance. Dismissed.”

He does not fear her. Does Lord Hordak fear anything? She has heard rumors but has never once glimpsed his face. Whispers say he is horrifying. A monster to behold. Around her, the soldiers intone “yes sir” as one and rise. She can hear shuffles. Someone rips the bag from her head and with it a sizeable chunk of hair.

Light Spinner hisses. Pain along her scalp, pain in her shoulders-knees-elbows-fingers and pain in her eyes. It isn’t bright here. But her eyes are not adjusted. Spots of color dance in front of her. Everything spirals.

And then her world is consumed by red.

Red, red, red, her entire existence is drowning in it. It’s all she can see. Dripping like blood and glowing amongst shadows like a wicked thing, cold and all-consuming, assessing, and she feels them bore deep into her chest. Her blood is ice. She can’t think. Can’t breathe. All she can see is his silhouette, eyes bright in the dim, and nothing is right. What _is_ he _?!!_

Lord Hordak looms above her, a wraith, and the world drips carmine.

“So you are the one so thoroughly frightened my troops.” He has a smooth voice, deep and lilting, and she thinks his chest must be huge for all it rumbles. “You aren’t what I was expecting.”

~~No one ever suspects the scarred ones.~~

Light Spinner feels fury bloom in her chest, a deep anger. An old anger. An anger that sat and thrummed in time with her magick, with her soul, with that incurable thirst for power she possessed. It tightens her jaw and makes her brave. Makes her foolish, reckless, _stupid_.

“What were you expecting? Perhaps a knight? An old man with a beard and a staff?” She feels the acid in her words, and they drip off her tongue like pure venom. “You think so small, _Lord_ Hordak.”

Lord Hordak narrows his eyes. Tilts his head. His ears are pointed, she notes, larger and more prominent than her own. Light Spinner is not unintelligent. She knows vitriol will do nothing to help her situation. But the anger hisses through her veins and clouds her judgment and she can’t help but glare at the large monstrous figure looming above her. Another low hum. Hordak steps closer, illuminated by the lights overhead, and her mouth goes dry.

He’s _massive_. Broad shoulders and a barrel chest. Fingers that end in wicked claws. His teeth are the same color as his eyes, massive and sharp, with fangs that glint once he steps into the full light. Cold washes down Light Spinner’s body. Her spine straightens. She tries not to shake. It doesn’t altogether work.

The sound of his boots echoes off the high ceilings, the pipes, the metal that seems to make up every surface in this place. Heavy thuds. They ring like a funeral dirge. Goosebumps rise along her arms, the back of her neck. Sweat breaks along her hairline. But Light Spinner does not cringe. She does not shy.

She continues to glare as Hordak kneels before her.

“You are a _defiant_ creature, aren’t you?” he murmurs, soft and questioning. “What is your name?”

Light Spinner swallows. The cuffs around her wrists are bruising, and she feels the absence of her magick acutely. “They call me Light Spinner.”

Recognition lights the man’s alien features, and his smile is a slow, mocking thing. “Ah! Of course! You are a member of the Sorcerer’s Guild, if I’m not mistaken. I’ve been studying your ranks for some time now. I’m rather astonished my troops managed to capture you at all – the skills of guild-mages are legendary.”

“I was outnumbered and outgunned,” Light Spinner answers ~~Micah’s bruised and Micah’s bloody and he’s crying a child desperate to know why~~ stiffly. “It would have been foolish to continue fighting a battle I could not hope to win.”

Hordak tilts his head again, and the line of his fangs sends her heart into her throat. “Most who fight us would have done so to the death.”

She cannot stop the sneer that curls her lip. “Dying when one could live to fight another day is nothing noble. It’s stupid. Reckless.”

There is approval and mild surprise in the warlord’s hellish eyes. He leans closer, and his breath ghosts across her cheeks. It makes her recoil. Not the smell, but the nearness, the absolute _wrongness_ of another person invading her space, and Light Spinner can feel her heart pounding violently under her breastbone. She is powerless and afraid and those _teeth_ are going to give her nightmares, she can feel it.

Hordak does something then that surprises her.

He leans away. Stands to his full height, hands behind his back, and does not move to touch her. Light Spinner feels relief and utter confusion in equal measure.

“Some would argue that being captured by the enemy is a fate worse than death,” Hordak growls. “You do not know what I have planned for you.”

His point is valid. Light Spinner hates that. Because she has been beaten and mocked and man-handled by brutes. She is bruised. Bloody. Powerless. She does not know what they do with prisoners of war, particularly those who have killed so many soldiers. Or one who drove one soldier to insanity, in fact. But she cannot find it in herself to regret her decisions.

“I do not,” she replies. “But I do know I intrigue you. That I’m likely the first sorcerer you’ve captured alive.”

One pointed ear flicks in what she perceives as irritation, possibly intrigue. “You presume much.”

Light Spinner shrugs and attempts to feign confidence. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m more attuned to what the Horde’s plans are than you realize. I could be an asset if you wish to utilize me.”

The words make her nauseous, but she _needs_ him to keep her close. To learn to trust her. Dismantling this place will be easy enough if she can just. . .. maneuver into the right position. And once the Horde burns and Hordak kneels before her, she can lean into that monstrous face and smile and watch the light drain from those bloody-red eyes. Etheria will prevail and hail her as a hero.

~~She can go home and they will trust her and Micah will turn his smile upon her once more and she will be _powerful_ , be loved, be everything her mother told her she would never be and it will all be perfect. ~~

Hordak narrows his eyes and leans a little closer. “An asset, you say? You would betray your guild, your people? Your cause? Your ideals?”

She can see Micah again. His fire when she showed him the images of Horde destruction. The determination, the focus, on his cherubic face as he focused on her lessons. How he and Castaspella would run about the halls and cheer and play games, bursts of light trailing them. She pictures all her students and their admiration. Her peers and their passive acceptance of the Horde situation.

Light Spinner does not flinch when she meets the monster’s gaze. It is like looking in a mirror, she tells herself. “To believe in an ideal is to be willing to betray it. We are all liars, in the end. It merely depends on whether or not we choose to lie to ourselves.”

A scoff escapes Hordak, and he sneers down on her. “Spoken by a woman who covers her face. Guards! Remove her. I want her placed in a holding cell until further notice.”

Hatred swells in her chest, and Light Spinner does not move as more bruises bloom on her knees. Everything hurts. It is still difficult to breathe. Her nose is not broken, but it is swollen and caked with clots of dried blood. Her mouth tastes like death.

She is not broken.

~~This is just fuel.~~

Two guards enter from behind. Their steps are hurried, fearful, and she does not need to look to know that they wear their helmets. That they do not look their lord in the eyes. That they obey and do not question and then will beat her the moment they are not watched. Light Spinner straightens her shoulders. She does not flinch. She lifts her chin and glares at Lord Hordak and tries to ignore the sinking, twisting feeling of despair in her stomach.

Their hands are rough on her shoulders. She is dragged to her feet though her knees feel as though they will give out any moment. Light Spinner fights the sensation.

Lord Hordak holds her stare as his soldiers frog-march her out the door. It is hard, and harsh, and it scrapes at her nerves in a way she hasn’t experienced in years. But there is the barest hint of intrigue underneath it all, and Light Spinner considers that a victory. Minor, fragile, but a victory.

The halls are a labyrinth, and the soldiers seem to take great pleasure in ramming her bodily into whatever obstacle they passed on their way to the cell blocks. One shoves her into an exposed pipe, laughing all the way. She thinks a rib cracks but can’t be certain. Light Spinner doesn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her pain.

She lifts her chin and glares and relishes in the fear that lines their shoulders.

Finally, _finally_ , they reached the prison. Rows upon rows of cells. Cold and empty. There are no bars, rather an energy field. It surprises her, even as the soldiers toss her head-first into the one assigned. Because she was not expecting to see energy, magick derived from science, instead of cold iron bars and dank, dripping cells.

Instead, everything is cold and dry and smells of metal. She is hungry. She is bruised and battered. She feels _empty_ , grasping for the slightest bits of magick that simply will not come, and the suppression cuffs on her wrist are damning. This is nothing like what she envisioned for this day.

Light Spinner curls at the back of the cell. She inhales a breath full of blood and closes her eyes.

She pretends the moons are warm on her face. She pretends the air smells of moonflowers and jasmine. She pretends that she can hear the children playing, maesters whispering amongst tomes of ancient spells, and above it all a bright call of her name, joyous and full of wonder.

She imagines she is home.

Light Spinner is not a good woman. She is not kind, nor patient, and her heart is full of festering anger. But today, during that one shining moment in the Whispering Woods, she hopes she made the right choice.

~~At least here, in the dark, no one can see the tears slip down her face.~~


	2. tears on their shoes and ice on their shoulders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which . . . . 
> 
> Light Spinner has a nightmare, holds a grudge, does NOT condone the use of child, and makes pretty solid violent promises.
> 
> And Micah reflects on his current situation, helps his sister sleep, and has Depression™. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings for: beatings, self-harm, self-loathing, depression, and other Bad Things. Please be kind to yourself and know that you are loved.

_The Hall of Sorcerers is a quiet, solemn place. Its ceilings are arched and marble surfaces lovingly cared for. Children do not run when they pass through. Scholars and sorcerers alike keep a respectful silence amongst the noble statues. It is filled with blank stares from marble eyes. Lifeless and cold. Desolate, in a strange way. A frozen beauty._

_Light Spinner hates it._

_Quiet is not something to be feared, surely, but she does not like to be left alone with her thoughts for too long. A quirk she’s possessed from childhood. One she should have outgrown by now._

_But here she is, arms wrapped about herself. Trembling and unable to face what should be her greatest achievement. It is a true honor for one’s likeness to grace this sacred hall. The last sorcerer of the Guild to be placed here was Master Norwyn, kind and solemn and holy as the vaulted ceiling his statue rests beneath._

_Except the eyes on Light Spinner’s statue are soulless and empty, glaring from overtop the artists’ rendition of her veil, and they make her stomach knot in on itself. Is this how others see her? Cold and unapproachable and lifeless? Cruel and blank? Silent and judging and sentinel? This feels wrong because she wants ~~power glory love recognition affection anything anyone please~~ respect from her peers and students. She wants them to listen to her words._

_But Light Spinner has never wanted them to fear her. Not in the way she fears herself on occasion._

_So here she stands._

_The silence is deafening._

_Until it isn’t._

_Light Spinner blinks in surprise when she hears little footsteps running past her. It is a boy, no taller than her waist, who does not heed the solemn aura surrounding him. Instead, he runs as though it is his mission in life and comes skidding to a stop just before her statue. There he stands, face tilted up like a flower to the moon, dwarfed by the hall and still so much brighter. He’s utterly tiny. A first year more than likely._

_But there’s something different about him. She can feel it._

_Light Spinner allows her curiosity to override her fear and strides into the hall. She keeps quiet, footsteps muffled, and approaches with hands folded neatly. The boy doesn’t seem to notice her. All his focus is upon the statues above. He’s even smaller up close, and she can see the baby-fat still lining his cheeks, a smudge of dirt along his chin, the gap in his teeth as he grins. But there’s such wonder in his dark eyes, such raw admiration, it makes her chest ache._

_“What are you doing here, child?” Light Spinner questions._

_She takes care to be quiet, to be unobtrusive. Children tend to be frightened of her, tall and serious and veiled as she is. But this boy is different. He doesn’t flinch or startle. He does not shy away. Instead, his eyes remain locked on her statue. Wide and glittering with awe. It’s. . . a strange feeling._

_“I’m gonna be just like her someday,” the boy whispers, vehement._

_Light Spinner tilts her head. “Whatever do you mean?”_

_Most children do not like her. Most children prefer Master Norwyn, who is patient and fatherly. Who has smile lines about his mouth and a gentle tone. But never her. Never Light Spinner, who is quiet and stern and speaks in low, harsh tones even when she doesn’t mean to. Who covers her mouth and stands tall and whose smiles do not quite reach her eyes._

_This child, though. . ._

_This little boy is different._

_“Light Spinner’s the greatest sorceress ever!” he whispers, eyes still affixed on her statue. “She’s strong and she’s smart and she doesn’t let anyone tell her what to do, not even Master Norwyn!! I wanna be like that when I’m a grown-up!”_

_Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “Really? Why, thank you, I’m flattered.”_

_There is a small part of her that feels guilty for the startled, doe-eyed expression on the boy’s face. It was not her intention to shock him. But Light Spinner mostly feels a deep sense of amusement, unable to keep from chuckling as the poor boy flushes red from tip to toe. He stammers for a moment, cheeks bright red, and only manages to choke out an approximation of her name when she decides to take pity on him._

_Light Spinner chuckles again and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Calm yourself, little one. I did not mean to startle you. But I am flattered, all the same. What is your name?”_

_Those big dark eyes turn up to her again in awe, and a beatific grin spreads over his cherubic face. “I’m Micah! And I’m going to be just like you!”_

_She is not good with children, typically, too impatient and harsh. But Light Spinner finds herself smiling at his enthusiasm, enchanted by his whole-hearted sincerity. “Is that so?”_

_There’s a spark on his face. Determination. Raw energy. Intelligence. “It is! I’m gonna be the best student you ever have, Master Light Spinner! I promise!”_

_Promises are empty things, she has found. They are like dust, floating in the wind, transient and gritty and gone within a breath. They can be so much worse than lies because a promise makes you hope for nothing but uncertainties. But this boy, Micah, makes a promise sound like it means something. As though a promise has weight and shape and substance._

_Light Spinner kneels before him and assesses. Then her smile widens. “I will hold you to that, Micah. Such promises are not to be taken lightly. I expect great things from you.”_

_Micah bows his head and furrows his tiny brow. “I won’t disappoint you.”_

_The child’s face morphs, grows older, and it is covered in blood and dust and tears. But his expression does not change though the fear in his eyes is stark. “I promise.”_

_“Light Spinner, I promise.”_

_Her heart spasms and everything about this little boy becomes familiar. Micah – her brightest, kindest, most powerful student. Micah, who can blast apart granite in a heartbeat but captures spiders and sets them free even though he has a terrible fear of them. Micah, who deciphers runes without effort but struggles with basic spelling and grammar. Micah, who looks at her with wonder instead of fear and **believes** in her, even when she no longer believes in herself. _

_Fear. It’s written all over his face. Light Spinner tightens her grip on his shoulders. Tries to keep him close. Keep him safe. But it’s. . ._

_It’s not working._

_She’s losing him. The slim shoulders under her fingers begin to crumble, Micah’s face dissolving in a cloud of dust. Her fingers are stained red. It’s all she can see. Red, red, red, the color of a monster’s eyes and it’s dripping from the statues and they smile down at her, mock her, accuse her, and then it’s swamping her, crawling up her neck and into her mouth her nose down her throat drowning her and she struggles against the tidal wave but just before it clogs her ears. . ._

_“I promise.”_

Light Spinner wakes and finds herself in a cell. It is cold, and it is dark, and it smells of rusting metal and sewage. For a moment, through her pain and sleep-addled brain, she panics. This is not her room in Mystacor. There are no dark canopies or the smell of incense. No crystals tinkling in a light breeze. Here there is only stale air and damp steel, old blood filling her mouth like filthy coins. Her nose is swollen and her lip is cracked. Her skull throbs in time with her heartbeat.

Memories rush back.

The Whispering Wood. The Horde. Micah.

Light Spinner steels her spine and catalogues what she knows. The Fright Zone is a labyrinth. Its soldiers are brutes. They fear magick. Lord Hordak is a monster, intelligent and cunning, and he has developed a technology to cut her from her power. She is in a cell with no windows. There are shackles on her wrists. She is injured and weak and dehydrated, judging by how dry her mouth is.

A precarious position, to be sure, but not altogether a hopeless one.

Sitting upright brings a fresh wave of agony, new hurts summoned with the motion, but Light Spinner makes no sound. Pain is not weakness, she has found. Rather, it is strength in its own way. She grinds her teeth together. She focuses on the hurt, on the anger, and perseveres. Her ribs are definitely bruised, if not cracked, and she likely has a concussion. There is a split on her brow she didn’t notice before and it itches. Her nose is swollen, and her knees are bruised as well. But, all in all, she is whole.

Footsteps seem to echo in this place, and the sound of boots on metal grating make her tense. Light Spinner nearly gasps for the pain it causes her ribs. Instead, she grinds her teeth until they groan, fresh blood staining her lips, and remains silent.

The shackles binding her wrists chafe.

A soldier, different from the ones her brought her here, rounds the corner. This one is smaller, leaner than the rest. Almost. . . childlike? Their hands, gripping a tray of food, shake almost imperceptibly. But when they speak, Light Spinner feels her anger spike once more.

“Breakfast, prisoner.”

It’s a girl. Obviously young, if the way her voice warbles like birdsong is anything to go by. This is a _child_. And she is a soldier in full armor, unable to fill out the chest plates that protect her fragile heart. Light Spinner notes how her fingers tremble when opening the energy barrier, how she hesitates at the door before stepping forward. She’s scared. Terrified, really, if the line of her shoulders is anything to go by.

The tray is placed a few feet before her. Barely within grasp if she were to struggle for it. Light Spinner does not move.

“I won’t harm you, child,” she rasps, low and raw. “There’s no need to fear.”

The soldier-girl stiffens, then huffs. “I’m not afraid! _You’re_ the one who should be afraid, _witch_!”

It’s terribly rude to call a sorcerer such but Light Spinner supposes she can forgive a frightened child such a thing.

Behind her veil, she smiles, and blood stains her teeth. “Of course. Forgive me – you’re terribly intimidating.”

Electricity crackles to life before her. Light Spinner reels away, eye-level with a sparking stun-baton, and blinks in shock. The girl-soldier makes a growling sound behind her helm, fingers white-knuckled about the weapon’s hilt.

“Don’t make fun of me, prisoner!” she near-snarls. “I’ll make you sorry!”

~~“Don’t take that attitude with _me_ , girl! You’ll regret it! Watch your tongue when speaking to your mother!”~~

Something tells Light Spinner she should at least be startled by the sudden change in demeanor, should be submissive and get the girl-soldier to leave her cell. But all she feels is _rage_. Deep and consuming and intense, chewing deep into the walls of her heart until the world is stained in various shades of red and black and lightning pushes through her veins. Because she was not to be threatened by a child. Because she should not be in a freezing metal box, chained to a wall and beaten and powerless.

Because _how dare they_?!!

None of this is right and Light Spinner growls, fingers flexing and wrists bleeding, and the girl finally cracks. There are no eyes to contact beneath the helm’s visor, but a sorcerer always knows where a person’s soul may be found. She reaches out. She feels for it, connects through tinted glass, and the child dressed as a soldier folds like wet paper. There is little magick behind her actions, nothing but a shadow, but it is enough to taste this child’s fear. Fear of failure, fear of the unknown, fear of a stranger, fear of a monster with bright green eyes and a blood-stained veil. The fear of a child dressed in armor, who knows nothing of a world outside steel walls and the smell of dripping water.

The rage builds.

Light Spinner does not know the girl’s name but watches through burning eyes as she flees. Tripping over boots too large for her feet as she goes. She can still taste the fear, like bile running over her teeth. It’s cloying, nauseating, and she wants to scream.

Instead, she breathes. In, then out, then in again.

Her skull is throbbing. Her fingers won’t stop shaking. Deep in her heart, she grieves. But Light Spinner sets her jaw and reaches for the tray of bland food that was provided. It’s some sort of ration bar, gray and bland, with a glass of water.

She sips the water – it tastes metallic, stale in a way. The bar is bland and flavorless. Nothing horrid. But nothing she wishes to consume further, not with how her stomach rolls and her skull throbs. Light Spinner forces herself to swallow the bite she’s already taken then shoves the rest away.

It’s cold in this metal box.

She catalogues the hurts, the wrongs. Each and every one. She keeps them close to her heart and lets the rage burn. Quiet and hot and fierce. Her skin is cold but her guts are aflame and nothing here is right. Brutish soldiers. Children wearing armor. Warlords with fangs and claws. Bruises on her knees and blood on her teeth.

There are shouts emerging from the belly of the beast.

~~“Fear is a friend, my child. As is patience. Heed them or be killed.”~~

Light Spinner listens. It’s garbled. Muffled, in the same way one might hear a cavern’s echo. She cannot decipher what they are screaming about. Not until someone spits the word “witch”. Boots collide with the grating outside her cell. Rapid, staccato, _angry_. There isn’t enough energy in her body to be afraid of consequences. Not when the cuffs about her wrists cut into her skin and suck away her magick.

She leans against the frozen steel wall and bides her time. Patience is not something she excels at. But it _is_ something she has practiced for a long while. It is a virtue, after all. And so she waits. Listens to the sound of thundering footsteps echoing within a steel carcass, rats scurrying across through its veins.

Another soldier, larger, without a helmet rounds the corner. It’s another Reptiloid. His scales are violet, glowing like an oil-slick in the low light. He snarls at her, removing the energy barrier. In three steps, he’s on her. She’s powerless. Chained to the wall like a dog. Magick just out of her grasp.

It’s quick and vicious and brutal. Light Spinner barely has time to think before she is backhanded across the face. Her vision blurs. She spirals to the ground. Something clatters, liquid on her sleeve. Blood fills her mouth, lips ground against her teeth. But she has no time to reflect on that before she is kicked in the stomach. All the air leaves her lungs. Each blow is in a different spot. One to the ribs. Another to the face. One against her legs. Something snaps. The pain is excruciating. She curls in on herself and takes it.

Light Spinner coughs a mouthful of blood and it stains her veil. The smell is overwhelming. She stares at the walls. Steel, cold and unforgiving, and she catalogues the hurt. This soldier, with his violet scales and viper-eyes, will die screaming.

Because she is not kind. Or good. Or gentle.

And magick always remembers its enemies.

It ends just as quickly as it begins, and more rats scurry into the cage. They grab at her shoulders and heave her upright, squeaking amongst each other with noise shaped into words she can’t grasp. Sliding into her ears and out again, oily and viscous.

The rats wearing armor drag her out of her cell. Her vision is blurry, blood dripping from her nose once more. Light Spinner feels her head lolling about, a bladder on a stick, and she catches sight of another prisoner. A young man with dark eyes, dark hair, and he looks at her in abject horror. There are bruises on his face but he is well-fed it seems, and her heart hurts.

She locks the hurt away. Closes her eyes. Makes a promise.

~~“You’ll never be trusted, girl. Just like me. Just like _him_. The best you can do is keep your word.”~~

They can break her. Snap every bone in her body. Pain is an old friend and she is stronger for it. _She_ does not matter. Not in the grand scheme, it seems, in the face of this great rotting monster. With its gnashing teeth and children dressed in armor.

But they will _never_ hurt Micah. Or any of her other students. Mystacor is hers to protect, hers to defend, and she will do so with rage in her heart.

One of the rats runs its claws through her hair and chuckles, pulls on thick curls as they drag her.

Light Spinner closes her eyes. She sees a little boy, very nearly twelve, with big shining eyes and a bloody lip, who looks up in wonder and unconditional trust. He smiles at her. He isn’t afraid of her.

_“I’m gonna be just like you one day. I promise_.”

Light Spinner opens her eyes.

And lets the beast swallow her whole.

~*O*~

He lets the wounds fester.

They’re hidden beneath thick bandages, covered by his sleeves, burrowing into the flesh of his arm. At night, he unravels each wrapping and stares at them. They’re angry and red, and they drip pus at the slightest provocation. But, somehow, physical hurt is better. Physical hurt he can handle.

It’s his heart that’s causing him real grief.

None of the healers had noticed them upon his return to Mystacor. They were too busy dealing with the wounds on his face. Too busy dealing with the fact that he couldn’t stop _screaming_. Clawing at the hands holding him, magick bleeding from every pore and lashing out at whatever – whoever – it could reach. Eyes burning and lungs too tight and no one would _listen_.

Micah doesn’t remember much about the frantic few hours after returning from the Whispering Wood. But he does remember that no one would listen. He remembers how they pinned him down and forced him to sleep and _no one_ listened. He remembers how they told him to calm down, how they whispered platitudes after platitude until words were nothing but white-noise. How they gave him drugs, herbal teas that froze his muscles and forced his brain into submission, into a black abyss that it hasn’t quite crawled out of yet.

But Micah _fought_. He fought and he fought and he fought until he just couldn’t anymore.

~~“Do not stop fighting, my child.”~~

Micah looks at the wounds rotting in his forearm. Three gashes in perfect parallel. He remembers how he screamed, how the blood dripped. How Light Spinner came flying out of nowhere, eyes blazing, magick sizzling through the clearing like a lightning blast. How soldiers flew and her eyes _burned_ and blood painted the grass and her nails were dripping, long and sharp like claws. And he remembers how _angry_ she’d looked, like an animal, like a demon. It had scared him.

And then he remembers how she’d looked at him, and how the anger turned to fear, and how she ran her hands over his head like he would disappear and how he just wanted to go _home_. How he’d clung to his mentor like a scared little boy, sobbing like a baby, and she’d held him just as tight and the way she kissed him on the forehead and –

Pus leaks from one angry gash. Fever crawls up his arm. Tears crawl down his face.

He’s stopped fighting.

Light Spinner will be ~~would be she’s dead you killed her all your fault weak little baby~~ so disappointed in him. Because she saved him, told him she was proud of him, that she thought he was strong. He’s not, and Micah knows this. Because he’s _weak_. He’s small and pathetic and scared. He wakes up screaming and his mother had to put a spell on his door so he doesn’t wake Castaspella and there are times when he hears boots on floors and just _freezes_ , his muscles locked like rusted gates. Can’t move can’t think, can’t breathe because _they’re coming, they’re coming, oh moons, they’re coming please help me_. And sometimes he think she hears Light Spinner around the corner, too, and sees the hem of her robes so he sprints after her except she’s not _there_ , she’s _gone_ , and he’s weak and stupid and pathetic and crazy. . . .

Sometimes, he sits under the workbench in her study and stares at the patterns carved there. He hasn’t practiced his magicks in days, not a spell to be woven about his ruined fingertips, the ones where he’s chewed the nails to the quick. He can’t cry anymore. There aren’t any tears left.

“Do not stop fighting, my child,” she’d whispered, and sometimes he still feels the imprint of her lips on his forehead.

Micah watches the pus drip to the floor, wipes it away, then re-bandages his arm. Mother will be angry if he makes a mess. She worries enough as it is. Father is angry, but he’s angry at _Light Spinner_ , which makes Micah angry in turn. Because they don’t _understand_ , neither of them. Not his parents, not his peers, not his tutors. No one understands. Not a bit.

His parents try. Mother cries a lot. Sometimes, when she thinks he’s sleeping, she comes into his room and holds him like a baby, strokes his hair and rocks him and her body shakes like she’s crying. And Father buries himself in scroll after scroll in an attempt to find any other way to make Mystacor stronger. He won’t look at Light Spinner’s notes on the Spell of Obtainment. Refuses to even speak her name. But sometimes Micah catches him late at night, red-eyed and teary and shaking with exhaustion, muttering about keeping them all safe.

That was what Light Spinner had been trying to do. Keep them all safe. It was what she _did_ , that day.

~~And he remembers thinking initially that she never needed to wear a veil, that she was beautiful, that her smile could light a room, and he remembers how her fangs had caught the light and shone with venom and how his heart froze a little bit but then she’d kept smiling and leaned in and kissed him on the forehead and he just wants it to be okay again, just wants the world to go back to normal except it never will because he killed her he killed her he killed her. . . .~~

In some ways, his grief feels like betrayal. Because Micah loves his parents and he knows they love him too but they don’t _get it_. Father is a sorcerer, yes, but he is a scholar first and foremost. He learns the past, not the future. And Mother can weave spells but she does nothing but take care of Castaspella and host parties with women who drip jewels and titter like empty-headed songbirds. She is prim and proper and does not know how to speak to a son who wishes to create explosions and sometimes comes in covered in soot from his latest endeavors.

Light Spinner _did_.

Because even though she pushed him hard and tolerated no disrespect, she was patient and corrected gently when needed. Because even though she was serious and scholarly, she had a dry sense of humor that never failed to make him laugh until he cried. Because even when his peers turned their noses at him ~~you’re small you’re weak you’re such a show-off _witch_ Micah~~ Light Spinner listened to him and Light Spinner told him he was destined for great things and Light Spinner just. . .

Like during his Second Year practicals when they forced the students to give an oral demonstration of an illusion rune and Master Norwyn’s grandfather-stare made him so nervous his hands shook and his palms were sweaty and he nearly fainted on stage and barely passed even though he _knew_ how to do the spell, had done it ten thousand times, and had to run away from Father’s disappointment and Mother’s fretting and she’d found him in the toilets, retching and crying because “I’m sorry, I ruined it, I failed you, I’m sorry” and Light Spinner had picked him up and sat him before the sinks and looked him dead in the eyes and said, “You failed no one, Micah, and I’m so proud of you” and let him cry until his throat was raw.

Micah stares at his arm in the dark and ignores how his stomach growls. There are more tears to cry, it seems. Because they drip down his nose and make his eyes burn. He watches through a film as his arm rots away. He doesn’t want to die. Light Spinner told him to fight, and he can’t fight _that_ way anymore. But sometimes, he thinks, fighting means just staying alive so that’s what he’ll do. Still, he watches his arm, night after night, and does nothing.

The wounds fester.

~~But the ones you can’t see are the ones killing him.~~

There is a knock on his door. Small and light. Micah wraps his arm tight in bandages before rasping out, “Come in.”

And there, standing in her little lavender nightgown, is Castaspella. She’s just turned four this last fortnight, and she is still small. Cheeks rounded with baby fat and ears a bit too large for her head. She’s clumsy with a gap between her front teeth.

Micah loves her dearly.

“Casta? What’s wrong?”

Castaspella rocks on her feet and chews her lip. Mother has put braids in her hair to keep it from knotting. “I had a bad dream. Can I sleep in here?”

Father has said that Casta’s too old to be sleeping in his bed now. That she needs to learn how to start overcoming her fears. But Micah thinks that’s dumb ~~he’s scared all the time and it makes his heart pound like a war drum~~ so he’ll do whatever he likes when she comes to his room in the night. Instead of answering, Micah smiles and lifts the covers on the edge of the bed. Casta smiles back, and it’s watery, and she runs on fat little legs to crawl atop the mattress.

She burrows into his side and radiates heat like a hearth. Micah doesn’t mind. He just re-situates the covers and wraps an arm over her shoulders. She’s just little. Most brothers find their sisters annoying. But Casta is nothing if not entertaining. She’s bright and curious and her smile makes things just a little bit brighter.

“I'm sorry I had bad dreams. Mama says I’m not a’pposed to bother you,” Casta whispers.

Micah hums in his throat, rubs at her tiny back. “Well _I_ say you’re never a bother. Go to sleep, little bird. I’ll keep the nightmares away.”

Casta tucks even deeper against him, and she smells like candy-apple soap. “Will you make the lights dance for me, p’ease?”

His throat closes. His fingers twist, clench. But Micah holds his sister tighter and realizes that he cannot say no and so he slowly starts to carve the rune. Feels the magick gather on his fingertips like a flame and then _releases_ , allows it to burst apart in an explosion of colorful birds that circle them lazily. Casta giggles against his side. It’s sleepy. She’s getting tired.

She doesn’t notice how his breath hitches. Or how his fingers twitch. Or how he does not look at the birds, at the light, because it _hurts_.

Instead, she presses a sloppy kiss to his cheek and whispers, “I love you, Micah.”

Micah smiles and it pulls at the corners of his mouth like fishhooks, digging deeper and deeper until blood soaks into his teeth. “I love you, too, Casta. Go to sleep now.”

She sags against him and the room is quiet once more.

~~“Do not stop fighting, my child.”~~

The wounds are festering.

Micah has stopped fighting.

Instead, he cries, and lets the rot in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. . . you know how I said in the tags "Child Abuse we don't know her?" Well, that applies. But I still had to hurt Micah. Who is a bean and does not deserve ANY of my bullshit. Regardless, here we are, and I hope that this chapter was a decent-enough segue into the rest of the story. 
> 
> Light Spinner is a much better person than Shadow Weaver, but she's still kind of a vindictive bitch when she wants to be and I hope I got that across here.
> 
> Anyways, thanks so much for reading this, and I hope to see you in the future!

**Author's Note:**

> So. . . . 
> 
> This is not my first rodeo with fanfictions. However, this is my very first fic in the She-Ra fandom, and I'm curious as to what is going to happen! Thanks to everyone who made it thus far and congratulations! Welcome to the garbage pile! 
> 
> I have no idea where this is going to go, but I've been toying with this "what-if" scenario ever since I watched the Light Spinner episode WAAAAAAAY back in Season 2. Shadow Weaver was such an integral (damaging) part of Adora and Catra's formative years. Not to mention the character is complex as FUCK and I wanted to do some deconstruction deep-dive on that shit. That being said, this is still an alternate universe. There is no Shadow Weaver. Only Light Spinner. Because I modified the Spell of Obtainment to need some obscure root from the Whispering Woods. 
> 
> And Hordak, who is a hot alien garbage-man as I said in the tags, the gods above have spoken. 
> 
> Once again, thanks so much, and I hope you guys leave a comment telling me what you think!!


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